


Thoughts of You

by Emela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha Derek, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Dom Derek, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mutual Pining, One instance of sexual abuse- but not from Derek, Panic Attacks, Post-Nogitsune, Slow Build, Soulmates, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Sub Stiles, Subdrop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3469247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emela/pseuds/Emela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles just wants the pain to go away. He wants the dreams to go away, and when the nightmares of the Nogitsune get worse, he turns to BDSM.</p><p>He doesn't know how to stop looking for that fix, even when he has a Dom who terrifies him and treats him badly. </p><p>He never expected Derek to help him but when Derek offers, Stiles learns having someone to help him escape the monsters in his head isn't all that he wants and maybe, just maybe, it's not all Derek wants either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a BDSM fic but this being me, I just couldn't stay away from the horribly angsty side of it. (Don't worry though, after this chapter no-one bad touches Stiles from here on out. I promise.) 
> 
> This fic is being partly written because post-Nogitsune Stiles kind of consumes me and I am always desperate for fics which show how he struggles with it, beyond how it's depicted in the show. The other reason is because I just like to see Stiles being taken care of by Derek because _reasons_.
> 
> I hope you like it.
> 
> Warning: sexual abuse. (If this is a trigger for you, you may want to skip the section that takes place after Stiles and Scott's conversation).

It starts with dreams of the Nogitsune.

They fill his head, leaving him fighting for breath, muffling screams into his pillow so his dad won’t hear.

At first, they’re just nightmares, disappearing into the back of his mind when his alarm beeps, signalling morning - another day. Then school breaks, and Stiles is left without a reason to keep going.

To keep pushing.

It's barely noticeable, at first; the way he lies in bed a little longer each morning, thoughts of Allison and, occasionally, Aiden, circling him like sharks; it feels like drowning, like he's going to explode, and he can barely breathe with it. He screams, sometimes, but he doesn’t want to be saved. The louder he screams, the more he hopes no-one will hear him. He doesn't deserve to be heard. This is his punishment, so he doesn’t talk about it, can't; puts a smile on his face whenever he sees Scott or Lydia, or anyone, not sure what he's hoping for when he does.    

Looking for ways to distract himself is easy, familiar; just enough to prevent his thoughts from tipping him over the edge and swallowing him. It's an edge he's fallen over before, when his mom died. He buzzed his hair - his dad hated it - but he doubts changing something so simple about himself will help him survive this time. He's cold, has been since Deaton told them they had to die, and it scares him. He knows the Nogitsune is gone, he  _knows_ that, but the memories, everything he did, won't leave him. He doubts he'll ever stop being cold. 

He takes up running.

It clears his mind; it's a safe rhythm, predictable - _one two three, one two three, one two three -_  buthis body never warms up, despite the aching muscles and constant shortage of breath. It quietens his mind, however, if only a little; enough that he can have a conversation with his dad without guilt eating his words; enough to play a video game with Scott and not have to excuse himself to go to the bathroom and count down in front of the mirror until his hands stop shaking. 

Still, it's _not_ enough. 

(He's always hated running.)

A chat room tells him to make himself useful . _Do good,_ it says, like it's that easy. (Well, according to - fuck -  _tears-are-sunshine-and-daisies_ , that's the answer. Stiles hopes the sunshine and daisies part is some kind of obscure Harry Potter reference because if not...well, who is he to judge.) _The best way to help yourself, is to help others_ _._  Stiles snorts. Help others. Yeah, because  _helping_ has really worked out for him so far. There's a reason everything he does isn't good enough; a reason why he's still terrified of the power the Nogitsune gave him, even though it's gone. _Surround yourself with loved ones,_ he reads on, sighing _._ A reason why his dad hasn't looked at him the same way since he was ten.

He closes his laptop and pulls his comforter around him before looking back up and opening it again. It couldn't hurt, he decides. The thought of doing nothing panics him more than it ever has before, which is possibly the most worrying this of all, and bringing up his search bar, types in  _ways to be helpful._

The next morning, he asks his neighbours if there is anything he can do for them, grateful when only one asks about how he's doing without his mom. 

***

He tells Scott it’s for money, hoping it's enough to keep his heart beat steady, but he can’t lie to his dad. He made a promise never to lie to his dad again, even though he knows it won't last; that he's never going to be that person - he's never going to be Scott McCall, he's never going to be _that_  son.

His dad smiles, placing a hand on his shoulder when he tells him- his way of saying _it’s okay, kiddo._ It's the first time Stiles doesn't think of his mom when his dad does it. Instead, he thinks of Derek. He doesn't know why, exactly; nor does he know why his breath catches the way it does, remembering his own hand on Derek's shoulder, the night Boyd died. It takes him a moment to realise he wants to call Derek then, that he has done for some time, just to see if he's okay. Stiles doubts anyone checks up on him, even Cora, and when he goes back to his room he almost does, pulling his phone from his pocket, but the longer he stares at it, it becomes all too apparent he has no clue what he would say. He has no clue if _Derek_ is even the reason he wants to call. He feels selfish, the longer he stares. It's not like Derek's a friend. Stiles isn't sure what Derek is anymore - an ally, maybe; a summer, perhaps.

_I need...help._

_Help?_

_Your help. To find them. I can't - they're my pack, okay? I can't just..._

_Just to clarify. You want..._ my _help? Don't you, like, hate me?_

_Are you in or out, Stiles?_

Putting the phone down, he buries his face in his hands, ashamed of his own tears. He failed Derek too, that summer, he realises. He doesn't even know if there is one person left he _hasn't_ failed. 

***

Stiles cleans out Mrs Hutchinson’s attic the following Monday. She doesn't offer him money, which he's grateful for, but she does tell him he can choose something from one of the boxes labelled _out_  to take away with him as a reward. He chooses a 17th century book on demons because, _well,_  and an old 80s poster of Michael J. Fox. 'Back to the Future' was never one of Stiles' absolute favourites but something about the poster makes him smile. On her recommendation, he spends the rest of the week painting Mr Goldman’s house in a fluorescent green. It's an ugly colour, the kind that has him dreaming about Mike Wazowski from 'Monsters Inc' instead of twisting a knife in his best friend’s stomach. The relief hits him so hard he doesn't even realise he's crying until his dad knocks on his door, asking him if he's okay. 

The jobs stop after that. Stiles supposes there are only so many people willing to humour the Sheriff's son for old times sake and tries, instead, to exhaust himself by finding odd jobs to do around the house. He definitely makes a few things worse, and forced to admit defeat three days later after attempting to fix the leaky facet in the bathroom via YouTube and yelling, Stiles finds himself grabbing his car keys and driving towards the only other option he feels he has left: Jungle.

Despite his awkward nerd status at school, he knows he can probably find someone to "help" there. There's always someone, he thinks. That's what the movies always tell you, anyway. 

***

He doesn’t really know what he’s looking to find, other than music loud enough to drown out his thoughts, _possibly_ make him pass out altogether. He doesn't know how music can make you pass out, exactly. At least, not without a serious amount of alcohol, but Stiles is willing to find out. He doesn't dance, even though it's something he's always secretly loved to do, but the faceless sea of bodies helps him relax enough to take a seat rather than lingering by the door. As far as anyone here knows, the only thing he's guilty of is being under age. Here, he's just a teenage boy, not an ex-host for a psychotic fox. Not that Stiles feels like a teenager anymore. He's seen too much, _done_ too much, to be seventeen and he hates it. He feels like he's grown up without doing any of the good shit everyone tells you you're supposed to do. 

People- surprisingly- buy him drinks and whether they guess his age or not, they put their hands on him too; some teasing, others with more promise. Some even ask if he wants to go somewhere "a little more private". It makes his stomach flutter, sad, an overwhelming urge to text Scott tugging at him, even if talking to him doesn't feel natural anymore. 

After a two beers and the most disgusting shot he's ever had, Stiles lets a stranger lead him outside as he wonders what Scott's life would have been like without him, letting himself pushed up against a wall. _At least then he never would have been bitten_ , he thinks, watching the guy unzip him, pulling him out of his pants. _Maybe Scott and Allison would be happy right now_ , as chapped lips start to mouth at the head of his dick. _People would still be alive if it wasn't for you_ , trying to remember everything he'd ever read about face fucking etiquette - was it politer to push someone away or warn them you were about to come down their throat embarrassingly fast? _Somewhere, in another reality, you didn't dig up Derek's sister,_ crying out as the stranger smiled around him, making an encouraging sound.

***

One of the drag queens recognises him on his fifth night there. Stiles remembers her- him? -her immediately, allowing himself to be petted and fussed over just like the first time he had come here with Scott, looking for the Kanima. It feels good too. _Really_ good, and Stiles is left wondering not for the first time how far his sexuality extends, thinking back to the party in Derek’s loft, his conversation with Caitlin.

_I do like girls. Do you?_

_Absolutely._

_Great._

_So you also like boys?_

_Absolutely. Do you?_

It wasn't necessarily a surprise, even though it felt like a revelation at the time; something scary and new. Boys have always appealed to him, ever since he was kid- he just never knew _why_ they appealed to him, or how. He remembers asking his mom about it, once, before she got sick. He still remembers the way she had smiled as he presented her with a picture of Eric from 'The Little Mermaid'; how she had kissed him on the forehead and told him she loved him.  _Pick a kind person, misiu,_ she added a little later, half way through making dinner - an after thought. Stiles bites his lip, remembering how she had made him write it down, as if she was afraid he would forget. _Pick someone who makes you feel safe._ He still has the piece of paper he wrote it on, a grocery receipt, in a box in his bedroom, tucked away safely under his bed. It had taken him ages but it had been worth it, just to see his mom smile. His mom's smile is - was - his favourite thing in the whole world.  

When Jackie- he thinks that's her name, anyway- rubs a firm hand over his crotch and asks him if he likes it, Stiles decides to stop thinking about labels entirely. It doesn't take long before he comes, somewhat humiliatingly, in his pants. Two nights later she sucks him off in one of the bathroom stalls, pats him on the cheek after, tells him to call her if he's ever in trouble. He doesn't know how to accept the offer - confused by it - not exactly used to being told he's welcome to call someone any time but he forces a smile anyway, punching her number into his phone, smiling when she laughs and kisses him before leaving. It's his first kiss since Caitlin and Stiles wishes he felt more from it, but he supposes kissing isn't meant to be like it is in the movies anyway. 

***

Three days later, he wakes up in a cold sweat. Allison's face is still swimming in front of him, Lydia's screams vibrating through him. It takes Stiles a long time to stop shaking and even longer reach for his phone, to _breathe_. At first, he doesn't know what to say as his eyes try to adjust to the light glaring at him from his screen, but as always the words come before he has time to process them. 

_I want to stop thinking. Can you do that?_

The reply is almost instant, even though it's almost 3am. It gives Stiles a strange sense of comfort.  _No but I know someone who can._

He isn't sure what he's asking for, or what Jackie even means, but it's enough. Enough to help him keep breathing, to focus on staying quiet for another hour until his dad leaves for work. His dad works as many shifts as he can lately - whether for Stiles' benefit or his own, he isn't sure. The moment he hears the door close, he lets go, screams into his pillow until he passes out, waking up two hours later only to do it again. It's a cycle he knows better than himself by now. 

At 2:13 he makes himself a sandwich, making a note to switch to brown bread. Just because he was possessed by an evil Japanese fox, doesn't mean he should stop caring about his dad's health choices. If anything, he should care more.  

***

 _Someone_ is introduced to him as Brian.

Brian, who teaches him how to give a rim job and how to breathe through his nose with a dick in his mouth. Brian who praises him when he does a good job and scolds him when he tries to touch himself. It makes Stiles’ skin tingle, the praise, the denial- especially the denial- and when Brian bends Stiles over the hood of his car four days later, probing at his hole with his tongue, telling him  _no_ when his hips start to twitch...Stiles can barely feel the splatter of his own release when he's finally given permission, his mind empty, eyes unable to focus on anything but how _drained_ he feels as Brian cleans him up.

He sleeps for five hours when he goes home that night - no nightmares, no faces.

Stiles cries so hard with relief he has to go into the bathroom and turn on the shower, scared his dad might hear him.

*** 

No-one introduces him to Lucas.

Lucas is new.

Lucas is exciting.

Lucas is _older_ , and when Lucas pushes Stiles up against the wall at the back of the club, stripping him of everything but his socks and shoes, Stiles pushes his body insecurities down, ignoring the fact anyone could see him here, ignoring how panicked he feels, just happy he's getting used. 

Lucas uses whips on him. He likes chains, not handcuffs. He uses words like  _slut_ and  _mine_ and asks Stiles to wear things he isn't always comfortable in. They don’t talk about it - any of it - it just happens, but Stiles is left feeling, well, _better,_ isn't the word he would use but he feels _something_ after. At least, when he wakes up in the middle of the night, it's to the nightmare he's disobeyed; that he's come too quickly or screamed too loudly. He ceases to be a killer, and that...that is good.  

He decides it's better not to risk asking questions, after a while. It's always a futile effort. Every time he does try, he either finds himself on his back with a gag in his mouth or on his hands and knees, sobbing into a pillow as Lucas spanks him with a paddle Stiles originally thought was for table tennis. 

Eventually, it becomes easier not to ask, to resist. He doesn't want this to end, to go back to not sleeping, to the nightmares. Plus, Brian taught him enough. Words like _scene, sub, Dom._  He knows all he needs to - probably - and his mind hasn’t been this quiet in _weeks._ The panic attacks don't stop but they are nothing he can't handle, not when there is the promise of more quiet, of nothing. 

Lucas knows what he's doing. He told Stiles he did.

***

“You smell different,” Scott says.

Stiles doesn't pause the game they are playing but he does struggle to keep hold of his controller. He has only seen Scott a handful of times since the summer started. He feels guilty, knowing Scott needs a distraction - that maybe he needs Stiles, like he once used to - but every time he tries to meet Scott's eye...he can't. Even picturing his face sometimes is enough to make Stiles feel sick. He hates it, hates even more that it might never go away; that he will never be able to look at Scott without remembering what the Nogitsune made him do and Scott will never be able to look at him without thinking about Allison. 

“I met someone,” he shrugs, after a moment, shovelling a handful of peanut M&M’s into his mouth; the ones he still buys out of habit for Scott. He hates peanuts but he shovels in another handful anyway, trying not to make a face as the taste coats his mouth. In the back of his mind, he makes a mental note never to tell Lucas he hates peanuts. He doesn't know why the thought enters his head but it does and he can barely suppress the shiver that runs through him at the thought of Lucas finding out. 

“Anyone you want to talk about?”

 _Yes,_ Stiles thinks, swallowing, frowning. _Remember when we used to tell each other everything?_ he wants to say. Part of him wants to crawl into Scott's lap, like he used to do after his mom died. It stings, knowing he can't; stings, realising his mom's death felt...easier than this, somehow. At least then, Scott loved him. At least then, he didn't feel completely alone. 

“No,” he finally says, closing his eyes when Scott's face crumples, knowing he's been lied to. 

 _I'm bisexual,_ he thinks, silently, hoping it will count for something. His hands shake, even though it's only a silent admission, but thankfully Scott says nothing. He does move his own hand though, like he wants to touch Stiles. Stiles is happy he doesn't. 

 _I'm confused_.

_I'm ashamed._

_I’m scared of him but...I don’t know how to stop._

***

It happens the first time Lucas takes him out to dinner. 

It's a diner - nothing fancy - but it's nice and when they walk through the door the waitress smiles at him. She reminds Stiles so painfully of Erica he can't return it, as much as he wants to, focusing instead on the way Lucas suddenly takes his hand, leading them to a small booth in the back where no-one can see them. Lucas doesn't drop his hand, even after the sit down, and Stiles can't help but smile at the soft touch, heart beating frantically, so unused to it. He wishes it could go on forever.

"Don't eat the chicken. I don't like chicken," is what Lucas says, however, before he doesn't touch him for the rest of the meal, leaning back to watch the waitress with a disgusted look as she comes over to take their order. Stiles doesn't know what she's done to displease him, maybe he doesn't like her tattoo - a small starfish on the side of her neck - but he's glad she doesn't look up, blissfully ignorant, except to give Stiles a shy smile as she leaves. 

Stiles shreds through eight napkins by the time they ask for the cheque, giving Lucas his car keys when he asks for them, staying silent as he drives them back to his apartment. There's a horrible feeling in the back of his mind the further they drive from town, from people. He's nervous but for all the wrong reasons. It's not uncommon, he tries to remind himself, to feel uneasy around Lucas. _You'll be fine in a few hours, you can't ask to go home now._  Especially, he adds, when he's this keyed up. He'll never sleep otherwise and that thought alone is enough to keep him quiet, drumming his fingers as quietly as he can against his leg, counting as he does. 

When Lucas stops the car, he wraps a hand around Stiles' wrist- whether a promise or something else, Stiles isn't sure- but it makes him wince nonetheless and he lets himself be pulled from the car and walked up the grimy stairs of Lucas' building, not wanting to do anything to make him tighten his hold on him. He likes having his ability to move taken away but he doesn't like it when it hurts, even though he knows he deserves it. He's blindfolded the moment they reach the front door; stripped, gagged and tied down to what is presumably the make shift guest bed Lucas usually sets up for when Stiles comes over. Lucas never lets Stiles near his bed - he asked about it once, why Lucas preferred the middle of the living room to his own room. He never answered though, fucking Stiles on the kitchen tiles and telling him to stay there for the rest of the day instead. Stiles had felt too out of it to protest but he never asked again, much preferring the bed to the floor to sleep on.  

Stiles tries to breathe through it, tries not to think as Lucas sets up whatever scene he has in mind for them. He likes being tied down, he's familiar with it; what he doesn't like is when Lucas introduces something new when they play, something he isn't familiar with. The sensation of something foreign being trailed down his back is enough to make him start to panic, for his breathing to lose the steady rhythm he had just gotten it into. It's smooth, he notes. Hard, too. A cane, maybe.

The first blow hurts beyond anything Stiles has experienced before, coming down on the back of his legs. Crying out, he instinctively tries to get away, even though he knows he can't.

Definitely a cane. 

“You’re _mine,_ ” Lucas seethes, striking him again, harder- so much harder- and Stiles pushes his face into the mattress, muffling a scream. He's been through worse, he thinks. At least he's not completely immobile. Its not Kanima venom. It's not a demonic spirit. _Fuck_ though, does it hurt. Pressing his face further into the bed, he tries to bite down. Maybe if he doesn't scream, Lucas will ease up. It's fucked up logic, but it makes sense to him. Lucas likes causing pain, he gets off on it. It wouldn't be unnatural for him to stop if he thinks Stiles is- 

He doesn't stop. 

"Does it hurt?" Lucas asks, grinning. At least, Stiles can hear the grin. "Are you going to cry, baby? Hm? You've been such a good boy up until now, Stiles. Such a shame you had to go and ruin it." He bites down on his ear then, hard, and Stiles whimpers, feeling something warm trickle down the side of his neck.

He hopes it's saliva.  

"I don't- I don't-"   _I don't want this,_ he tries to say. "I don't understand," is what comes out instead, around the gag.  _  
_

It takes him a moment to realise he's being punished. Punished for something, but he doesn't know what. It could be anything. Maybe he said something Lucas didn't like - it wouldn't be the first time Stiles had gotten punished for something he had said. Except, this is different. Lucas isn't expecting him to take this like he takes the other punishments. It feels like he _wants_ Stiles to be scared; not humiliated or contrite, just scared. Then he remembers. The waitress. It is the only explanation Stiles can think of. 

"Oh, I think you do," Lucas spits. "You think you can do what _you_ did and get away with it? That's not how _this_ works, Stiles."

"I don't - I didn't-" He's going to throw up, he realises, sobbing as Lucas strikes him another three times.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

He does his best to swallow the bile but it comes up anyway, dripping down his chin. The smell is pungent enough that Stiles manages to take another breath, fighting to stay calm, trying to ignore the loud, incessant voices in his head telling him _this_ is how his dad will find his body.

 _Murderer,_  he thinks.That's how he'll be remembered. The reason why people are dead; the reason why his own mother is dead. It doesn't matter Stiles has never pulled a trigger, has never done anything more than throw a punch or take a bat to someone made of stronger stuff than stupid baseball utensils. He exists - existed, maybe - and that's enough. Existed to pull Scott into the woods, to never shut up when his mom needed him to. Never just  _stopped_ when someone asked him to. 

His head begins to cloud over, as it often does, despite himself. He tries to shakes it, knowing he needs to be able to _think,_ but he can't. He can't do anything apart from scream, the pain making everything foggier and scarier at the same time as feels his skin tearing. Tears are streaking his face, stinging it, and he half laughs because it's so _uncomfortable_ , putting his body further on edge. There is blood inside his mouth where he has bitten down around the gag but it's the tears that have him shaking and tensing, wishing Lucas would just take the blind fold off and roughly wipe at his eyes, like he has a dozen times before. 

The cane moves higher instead, striking him across his ass, before a hand comes up and tears the gag away. Choking on his own spit, Stiles can't do anything as Lucas turns him over, twisting his arms. Stiles tries to kick out, determined to fight, but Lucas stops him easily, grabbing his feet with strong hands, securing his ankles to the bed with something cold and heavy. Chains. They give him no room to manoeuvre and the cane comes down on his front, knocking the breath out of him. Stiles' vision blacks out momentarily. He hear himself beg a moment later, hears himself plead for Lucas to stop, to please just _stop_ , but Lucas only laughs and hits him harder.

“Come on, pretty boy,” he says, spreading Stiles' legs and reaching behind him. Stiles bites his lip, willing himself to get hard in case that’s what Lucas wants. For him to come. It's humiliating and closing his eyes, he wishes he had never been so stupid; wishes he had just said no the first time he met Lucas. He wishes so many things. 

He doesn’t get hard and Lucas doesn’t stop. Just keeps going, until Stiles eventually passes out.

***

He opens his eyes.

He's alone and dressed again, back inside his own car, sitting in front of the diner. At first, he thinks it was a dream - after all, he's had worse dreams - but as soon as he moves he knows it wasn't. It's like Nogitsune, almost - waking up, remembering something he had no control over. He quickly realises he's going to be sick but unable to open the door, Stiles leans over and throws up on the passenger seat instead. It makes him feel better, like he's expelling Lucas in some way, but only for a moment. 

Fuck, he's not wanted his mom this badly since - he squeezes his eyes shut - since she slipped away from him that night in the hospital. 

Shakily, he brings a hand up to turn on the radio, jumping when music starts to blare. Jazz, he notes - Lucas' favourite - and turns it down. The dashboard reads 03.32. Stiles doesn’t know why the time is important but it is. It's a fact. It's something he knows, can file away under _real_ and  _breathe_. His whole body trembles, regardless, and his eyes sting, but most of all he’s tired. Woozy. He feels drunk but not in a good way, not in the way he’s used to feeling...after. It doesn't feel like a panic attack either - in some ways it's worse. He feels trapped in his own skin. He's used to feeling bad after seeing Lucas sometimes, he's come to expect it, but -  

He sits there for several minutes, willing the dizziness to stop, but the longer he waits the harder it gets. He knows he's experienced this before- he _knows_ he has. It feels familiar enough, he thinks, trying to catalogue how he feels, trying to figure out a way to - to _something._ He feels like he's empty, or lost. That's good, he can work with that. Empty, lost, empty lost, empty, lost. 

He screams into his hands. 

He needs the panic attack, he realises, but he can't feel one coming. The one time he wants one and his head won't fucking cooperate. Figures. It only makes the feeling - if it can even be called a feeling - worse, knowing there is nothing he can do. That he can't just wait this one out.

He needs needs to call someone.It's the right thing to do. He can't stay here, especially if Lucas plans on coming back.  _Shit, what if he's in the diner?_  Stiles thinks, a new surge of panic welling up inside him as he fumbles, trying to find his phone. 

He doesn't want his dad to find out, his dad _can't_ find out. Stiles can't bear the thought of it. He isn't sure he'd ever be able to look him in the eye again. He can’t call Scott either. Scott will give him that _look;_ that pitying, golden-boy look. Stiles doesn't want Scott to be his saviour. Stiles wanted to be Scott's - now, he just wants to be able to look at him and not be reminded of what the Nogitsune made him do, or how powerful it made him feel. 

He finds his phone before he’s ready to, fingers trembling as he scrolls down his contacts and hits call, not stopping to think of the reason why he’s - why when it comes down to it, he always wants to turn to- 

 _Just breathe,_ he tells himself, counting the fingers on his other hand. _He won't hang up on you. He won't._  It helps, but only slightly.

“Stiles?”

Derek's voice is groggy, most likely from sleep, and for a second Stiles thinks about hanging up.

“Derek,” he tries to say but what comes out is something garbled and high pitched. He can't think of what to say, he realises, and his lip trembles. He feels cold. “Derek, I- I can’t feel my head.” It’s the best explanation he can give.  _Try and describe what you feel._ That's what his mom used to tell him, before they diagnosed the ADHD. _No matter how silly the explanation,_ _always try, sweetheart. You've got to help us understand._

“What’s wrong?" Derek asks. He sounds gruff but not angry and Stiles tries to focus on that. Gruff but not _angry_ because this is Derek. He's never actually angry. At least, not with him. Stiles knows that now. "Are you with Scott? What happened?”

Stiles listens to something squeaking, a bed maybe, like Derek is moving. It shouldn't make him feel calmer, that he's bothering Derek, but it does and he takes another steadying breath. “No,” he manages. “He- I-” he sobs, again, pathetic. “Derek, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m so _sorry_.” He can’t hold back the tears and he  _hates_ himself. 

“I’m coming to get you,” Derek says, and Stiles listens as a door opens and closes and then another. “Stay with me. Where are you? Are you hurt?”

Stiles looks around, tries to think. He knows where he is and even though he can see the name, all lit up in front of him, he can't read it. 

“ _Stiles_." 

“The diner close to the subway car," he whispers, eventually. "The pink one with the big letters." 

“I’m heading in the right direction,” Derek answers.

Stiles nods, then remembers Derek can't see him. "Th - thank you. Sorry to be a b - bother." 

Derek takes a moment before replying, like whatever Stiles said surprised him. “It’s going to be fine. Just hang on."

“Please,” Stiles says, embarrassed, scared, letting the phone drop to the floor. Turning into his seat, he tries to ignore the smell of the vomit as he begins counting again. Vaguely, he thinks he can still hear Derek on the line, talking at his feet, but he's too tired to do anything about it.  


	2. Chapter 2

Derek is certain something has happened to Scott. Stiles doesn't call Derek - sure, he sends him the odd question via text now and again, asking this and that about werewolf anatomy, sometimes referring to Derek as his local "were-lore buster" (proving to Derek just how unfunny he is), but he doesn't call.Scott is Stiles' go-to, it could only be about him. Except - except when Derek gets out of the car and _sees_ Stiles...his heart stops. If Scott is missing, if something has happened to him, Stiles wouldn't just be sitting there. He’d rally. He'd be fighting or, at least, pacing. Loudly. He wouldn't be-

Derek has never seen him like this.

Stiles falls with the car door as Derek opens it, like he can’t hold himself up, but Derek catches him easily. Too easily. The scent of blood and vomit irritates his nose, assaulting him, making his stomach churn, but he ignores it- or at least, he tries to- unable to keep his eyes from roaming Stiles' face, far paler than usual. He's trying to breathe, he notes, like he's struggling for oxygen; hands usually so animated, weakly scrabbling at Derek’s t-shirt like he's desperate to be closer to him and Derek - Derek wraps his arms around him, unsure what else to do, pulling him to the ground and holding him still.

Stiles’ natural scent is all off; the one Derek has come to associate with late nights, paper and hyper-activity. The smells that hit him instead are fragmented and don’t fit together, like a broken vase missing some of the pieces. He smells hurt and tired but there is something familiar there as well. Something he recognises. Not because it’s familiar to Stiles, but because- 

The lingering odour of semen catches his nose, and suddenly Derek _knows,_ a flash back to a time and a place, a night club five years ago, stilling him. Stiles smells like he's _high_. Between that, and the way he is feebly trying to cling to him; how his head lolls but his body shakes, like every nerve is vibrating...Derek's been through this before, seen it before. Back in New York.  _Christ, he’s dropping_. When did Stiles start-

Derek bites back the question, along with a hundred other things he wants to shout. None of them will do any good, just like Laura's scared anger never worked on him. Instead, he pulls Stiles closer, cradling him, carefully pushing one of the sleeves of his hoodie up - the red one, Derek notices - so he can touch the skin there, gently rubbing it, trying to remember if small circles or broad strokes work best. Stiles responds well, to his relief; his breath gradually evening out, heart-rate slowing.  _Receptive to the touch._ Not as bad as Derek feared. 

“Has this happened before?” he asks, needing to know what he’s dealing with, keeping his voice as soft as possible. Stiles doesn’t answer right away but Derek detects the faint nod he presses into his chest, followed by the shrug. “Okay,” he whispers, stroking his thumb back and forth across Stiles' knuckles. He seems to like the strokes better. “Has someone-" He falters, struggling to continue. Dropping is dangerous and he needs to keep focused, but this is _Stiles_ and for some reason Derek can't. He shakes his head. _Focus._  "Has someone always been with you when it...happened?” 

Again, there’s a pause but Stiles still seems to be with him, pushing through, and shakes his head. Derek can feel the tears seeping through his t-shirt, can smell the shame that follows them. 

"It's okay, Stiles. I'm here now. It's alright, it's alright." 

Closing his eyes, memories of New York begin to force their way into Derek's mind. The first time he had dropped, he had been forced to call Laura. He remembers how low he had felt; how worthless and confused; remembers how he said he deserved it, over and over again while Laura held him, equally as confused, completely in the dark about Kate. Stiles doesn't deserve this. Stiles is as annoying as a little brother but Derek doesn't know how to be Laura for him, most of all because Stiles is the only one who has ever made him feel small since she died - human, not a monster. A werewolf, not an abomination. Playing big brother to Erica, Boyd....Isaac, that had seemed right, even if he never got to do it. Playing big brother to Stiles...well, you can't big brother your-

Derek opens his eyes again, dispelling the thought. He promised himself. If Stiles lived through the Nogitsune - he made a promise. He's not about to go back on it.  

The stench of blood and vomit burns his nose again, making his eyes turn red. He can smell someone else on Stiles’ skin too, beyond the semen. The same person; someone who smells like cheap cologne and chlorine. Derek exhales a few times, trying to expel the scent, his instincts as an Alpha- even if he's not Stiles’- taking over, wanting to bury that other scent under his own, to make it go away. 

“Who-” Derek starts to ask, cutting himself off at the last moment and rubbing his nose against Stiles’ temple instead, just like Laura used to do for him. Stiles isn't a werewolf but contact - contact is important, he reminds himself as he lifts Stiles up, walking him back towards his car. No fuss, no challenge or biting remark, Stiles puts his arms around Derek’s neck.

"Nice to know you can cooperate sometimes," he teases, feeling like he has to; feeling like Stiles needs him to. "Really...this silence is...quite lovely." Horrible. Stiles doesn't respond but his scent does spike a little, as if trying to tell Derek he appreciates the charade. 

Sliding inside the car, Derek can't bring himself to put Stiles down in passenger's seat. He knows it’s risky, keeping him on his lap, but he can't deprive Stiles of the contact - not when the slightest movement away from Derek has him shaking. He also knows they can’t stay here. Stiles needs somewhere more familiar, some food and fresh clothes. Touch can only do so much. He needs a safe place. 

Putting the car into shift, he thinks about taking him to Scott but there is a reason Stiles called him. Stiles always has a reason.. The same reason, he figures, the Sheriff isn't here instead of him. Sighing, he tells Stiles he's taking him back to the loft. Stiles says nothing, only clings a little tighter - whether in protest or agreement, he isn't sure. Derek has watched Stiles with his dad many times. He sees the way he tries not to let certain things show in front of him, how he makes jokes when Derek can tell he's angry or upset. Stiles isn't afraid of the Sheriff, he's Stiles' entire world, but Derek knows he's scared of something. That their relationship is - strained, somehow. He wonders if Stiles is even out to his dad yet. Unless, of course, tonight - the semen, the _guy_ \- had been a one time thing. An experiment.

Derek hopes, at the very least, it isn't that. That's Stiles' first time with a guy wasn't - this.

***

Stiles manages to eat little of what Derek offers him but he does accept a glass of water, swallowing it down in gulps. His eyes are vacant but responsive, watching Derek’s every move. That, at least, is familiar: Stiles' eyes on him, trying to work him out. Derek is under no illusion Stiles has much of a thought process, if any, right now, but it helps him to pretend.  

“You don’t have to talk,” Derek says, taking away the glass as Stiles starts to fumble with it. “But if you could blink to show me you understand what I’m saying, that would be helpful.” As instructed, Stiles blinks and Derek smiles. He almost has the urge to praise him but he clamps down on that thought immediately. Stiles is not his sub, he can't treat him like one. Still, he isn't sure how to get him through this _without_ treating him as one. Derek has never dealt with another Dom's sub before, and this is _Stiles._ Stiles who gets in his face. Stiles who isn't afraid to look him in the eye, or stand toe to toe with him. Stiles is not submissive, especially not with him, and it feels wrong somehow, to look at him that way. Stiles is an idiot and sarcastic and when he put his hand on Derek's shoulder when Boyd died, Derek can't honestly say he hadn't felt protected; like Stiles was caring for him on instinct, like a Dom cares for a sub when they are at their most vulnerable. Derek didn't know how to deal with that then and he doesn't now. 

Looking at him, Derek wonders if he should try and get Stiles out of his clothes (and burn them, he thinks as an after thought); give him something of his. Instead, he sets his eyes on a wash cloth, lifting Stiles to sit on his kitchen counter. Holding it out for Stiles to see, he waits until he gets a small nod in return before moving to the sink to wet it. He doesn’t want to undress Stiles, not while he doesn't appear to have the ability to protest or care, removing only his hoodie, leaving him in his t-shirt and jeans before beginning to exfoliate his arms with a scrub Erica left behind. He’s not touched it since… _since_ , but thinks this is the right time to use it. A good use for it. Erica would have liked the fact it's being used on Stiles, he thinks. She used to talk about him a lot, after all, even though Derek knows she didn't realise it. He smiles, considering telling Stiles that, just to see if she will come back and haunt his ass for it. His smile fades. The scrub smells like her but Derek is happy it’s not being wasted, either in the trash or on himself. 

There are deep markings on each of Stiles’ wrists, similar to rope burn, and Derek lightens his touch as he goes over them, careful to keep his face blank as he thinks about whether Stiles asked for them. Despite the gentle pressure, Stiles winces as the cloth runs over the welts but Derek takes it as a good sign. _Your pain receptors are working,_ he wants to say, not used being this silent. Well, at least, around Stiles he isn't. It feels weird, almost, like something is missing; a limb, maybe. Shaking his head, he doesn't let himself think about it further. 

“Do you want me to wash anywhere else?” he asks, however, unable to help himself. 

To his relief, Stiles opens his mouth- on reflex, Derek starts to think, but then he’s mouthing the word “stomach”, leaning forward a little, like he's trying to shift Derek’s hands. Hesitantly, Derek takes the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt between his fingers, keeping his eyes on Stiles' face. There is a little more life there now, but his eyes are still glassy, tired.

“Still okay?” Derek asks as he begins to lift the material. Stiles blinks twice and Derek nods. When he pulls it up, he tries to keep his face neutral, seeing why Stiles asked him to wash there. Stiles' skin is flaking with dried - Derek quickly turns away, adding an unnecessary amount of scrub to the cloth before bringing it back to massage over Stiles’ chest, barely controlling his anger, his hurt, as he remembers how Kate used to leave him sometimes, his own release making him feel uncomfortable and sticky as she got dressed and smiled that smile of hers Derek now knew was mocking, not loving. Blinking the unwanted image away, he focuses on not hurting Stiles, letting the cloth rest on the hairs just below his navel, soaking them just enough for everything to come away smoothly.

When he looks back up again, there’s a softness in Stiles' face that has never been directed at him before. Surprised, Derek offers a smile in return, hoping it looks just as soft; something he isn't sure he knows how to be anymore. Not since the fire. 

Stiles blinks again, once, twice, and Derek's smile widens, left not for the first time impressed at just how much Stiles perceives, even when no-one expects him to, or wants him to. How much he sees of people, in them _._  It used to make Derek uncomfortable, that perception - now he's uncomfortable it doesn't make him uncomfortable because he's not sure how to be anything else. 

Letting his smile fade, he rinses out the cloth and helps Stiles down. 

***

“I was having dreams.”

Stiles is turned away from him, head resting on his lap. The couch isn't anything special but it's got a throw pillow - something Derek bought on a whim, that summer they spent together - Stiles seems to like (or perhaps remember), his feet playing with it every now and again. The words aren’t slurred, just quiet, and Derek breathes a sigh of relief.  _You're okay._

Stiles’ scent still isn’t right, but Derek suspects there is a good chance it might never return. After the fire, Laura's scent changed; she grew sweeter, losing her spice. Instead of cinnamon and coriander, she carried hints of berry and sugar; she smelled like their mom and Derek often buried his face in her neck, pretending to himself, pretending _hard_. He changed too. Laura had hoped for a familiar scent, he knew; something she could cling to too, but all she had been given were dark, earthy smells - soil, bitter chocolate. Derek used to have nightmares about her discovering why his scent had darkened. As far as he was concerned, it was as obvious as a tattoo across his forehead reading _KILLER_.      

“I was having dreams,” Stiles says again, a little louder. It pulls Derek back to the present and he shakes his head, focusing, forcing Laura out of his head. “Dreams about what I did. About Allison, about everyone, and I couldn’t-” He begins to tremble and Derek raises his hand, combing his fingers through his hair, remembering how much he used to like it when Paige ran her fingers through his. 

It's feels good, he thinks, absently. Stiles can wear it buzzed or soft, _should,_  but Derek definitely prefers it longer. It changes him somehow. By the time he realises he's staring, fingers hardly moving, Stiles turns over, staring up at him, past him.

Derek always thought of Stiles as breakable, as human; painfully human. He never realised until now _vulnerable_ was never something he associated with him, and it makes Derek furious. This wasn't a case of improper after care. Stiles smells like trauma, like he  _struggled._ It's on the tip of Derek’s tongue, to ask just what he consented to, but all he can think about is how he'd like to rip this asshole’s throat-

“I tried to do stuff...to help,” Stiles exhales, interrupting the thought. “They didn’t work out too well." He laughs, hollow. "Then I went to Jungle and I- at first, it was fine. It helped. I - met people, you know? It felt good.” He shrugs, clearly embarrassed, and Derek's stomach clenches. He wishes he had known, even though it's ridiculous to think Stiles would have even considered coming to him about BDSM. He would have helped though, if he had, and not just because Stiles is-

“Then I met this guy. He got me to places. Places I didn’t get to the - the other times. Made me feel like the time I broke my leg and the doctors gave me morphine. I started sleeping again. That was nice. I didn’t care what he asked me for. As long as I got to that place, so I could sleep, I-” he stops, and Derek peers down. Stiles' cheeks are wet. 

They sit in silence, Stiles trying - failing - to keep in the tears and Derek listening to his heart beat, trying - failing - to keep his mind blank. After several minutes, Stiles reaches down to clutch at Derek’s leg. It seems to steady him.

“You know what I mean, right?" he asks, like he's been toying with the question. "What I’m talking about when I say he...got me to places?” 

Derek closes his eyes. He's never talked to anyone about New York. No one except Laura and even then, it was only because he had to, eventually. “I do,” he replies. “Did he- do you want to tell me what happened?”

“I think he got jealous, took it out on me.” Derek can't tell if Stiles is telling him, or asking, like Derek _could_  answer that. 

“You’re safe now," he says, because it's important - safety.  

"Seems to be our thing, doesn't it. Dragging each other to safe places." Stiles pauses. "Leaving straight after."

"I-" Derek begins, but before Stiles can answer, he's asleep - or at least, drifting - and Derek gently moves out from under him, careful not to disturb him. Covering him in a blanket, grabbing a book - the one he had been reading before Stiles called - he sits down on the floor beside him and opens it, trying to read along to the rise and fall of Stiles' chest. 

It's oddly comforting. Derek tries his best to ignore it. 

***

When Stiles wakes, the sun is already up. His eyes open slowly and Derek notes they’re clear, focused. It's not much but it's enough and sitting up, he removes the hand he had been covering one of Stiles' with, keeping him steady as he shifted restlessly during the night. 

“Morning," he whispers, blinking when he realises that's the first time he's said that to someone since Laura.

Stiles blinks back, rolling his shoulders. “I had another dream,” he says, rolling onto his side. He almost looks peaceful, like he fell asleep after a long night of research, like he used to do...that summer, but the moment Derek lets himself really look, he notices the lines; the bags under Stiles' eyes, the small scars he's collected, barely visible, from the Nogitsune. He notices the red surrounding his irises and when the sun moves, hitting his face, he flinches, like it could hurt him. It makes him wonder how many times Stiles has woken up to bad memories and he frowns, empathetic. 

“I know. You were talking in your sleep. Something about...hospitals.”

Stiles yawns. “I used to dream about Lydia, drove Scott crazy with it during sleepovers.” He rolls his eyes, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’d give anything for stupid dreams like that again, even if it _did_ mean waking up uncomfortably hard on my best friend's bedroom floor. I used to jerk off _so much_ in his bathroom, you wouldn't  _believe._ ”

Derek nods, unsure how to respond. "That's, uh..."

Stiles snorts, cheeks colouring a little. "Dude, don't worry. I don't expect you to, eh, answer that. My brain to mouth filter isn't at it's best in the morning."

"I didn't know you had one," Derek teases flatly, raising an eyebrow. 

Stiles glares but his scent remains soft and he sits up, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt, looking down. "Yeah, well, surprise. Guess I'm a real boy, after all." He waves both hands and Derek takes them, squeezing briefly, when they start to shake. He has no idea what to say, or what Stiles needs him to say.

“Would you like breakfast?”

Standing up, he crosses over to the kitchen and opens the fridge, trying to shake the strange feeling of _Stiles_ and  _morning_. An omelette is the most obvious option - at least, it's the healthiest option - but pancakes are tastier, more Stiles' style, he imagines. It’s not something Derek has made since he was a kid but that doesn’t stop him from leaning in for the milk and eggs, reaching up to pull the flour down from the cabinet, along with a skillet and a wooden spoon.

Boyd had liked pancakes. Or so Erica had told him, like she was sharing a secret with him. Maybe she had been. Maybe Derek had been too distracted to realise she was trying to make small talk with her Alpha, _any_ small talk. Her Alpha who was supposed to take care of her; listen to her. Biting the inside of his cheek, he tries not to think about what an idiot he had been when Boyd, Erica and Isaac agreed to the bite; the pack breakfasts and dinners he had imagined; full moons and movies, once a week, just like his family used to have. Derek wishes he had made those pancakes now, just as a start - a promise he was going to be better. That the Alpha they got wasn't the Alpha they should have had. Maybe, he thinks, closing the fridge door, pancakes would have stopped them from leaving. 

Stiles comes to stand behind him not a minute later, touching his back briefly as if he knows where Derek's mind is. Derek is careful not to shake him off, even though the touch startles him, and quickly nods for Stiles to walk over to the far side of the kitchen.

"Bowl, sugar," he says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Me, human. You, cave wolf."

"Me,  _hungry._ You, asshole," Derek smiles, despite himself, rather pleased with his retort. 

Stiles shakes his head but moves, doing as instructed. He doesn't close any of the cabinet doors, even after finding what he's looking for, and Derek is tempted to bitch at him because a tidy kitchen is a tasty kitchen, as his dad used to say, but he quickly checks himself. He wants to treat Stiles like he always has, and maybe be should, but today - today he wants to feed him pancakes, usual antagonistic relationship be damned. After last summer, last  _night,_ Derek isn't even sure he could call their relationship that anyway. 

~ 

“I just need them to stop,” Stiles says. "The nightmares."

They’re standing across from one another, separated by the kitchen counter, and Stiles has a pancake raised to his mouth. He ignores it, like it doesn’t exist, and Derek watches with growing agitation as it hangs there, not going anywhere, trying to align this Stiles with the one who used to shovel curly fries down his throat, making a _what_ face when Derek stared at him. Frowning, he leans forward, pushing the pancake towards Stiles’ lips, desperate to make him eat even just that one mouthful. He’s not responsible for Stiles, he knows, but - he bites his lip, scowling. _You’re not responsible for him._

Stiles, thankfully, takes a bite, chewing slowly, but the moment he swallows he shakes his head and pushes the plate away. “I don’t know how to make them stop. I get so many thoughts. I can’t forget. I can’t sleep without feeling sick or like my head is going to explode.”

He looks at Derek, like he has the answers, and it reminds him of the way Lydia would sometimes look at Allison - with trust. It shocks him for a moment.No-one has looked at him like that since...Derek doesn’t remember. Maybe Laura, before the fire. He doesn't know what he's done, for Stiles to look at him like that, but maybe it's not about trust. Stiles trusts just as well as he does, after all. More likely, he’s the only person Stiles has left to turn to. The thought eases him, in a way. In another, it...well, that doesn’t matter.  

“You’re not going back to- to what you were doing." It's intended as an order, but it comes out as a question and he frowns. He’s never been able to Alpha Stiles.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles says, crossing his arms. “I have no intentions of ever-” He shrugs, exhaling slowly.

Putting down his fork, Derek moves to stand beside him, feeling the unsaid words pouring off of him as strongly as if Stiles had said them. Going back to what he was doing scares him. He doesn’t touch him, but he stands near enough that, if he wants to, Stiles could lean into him.

“It’s not that it just helped the dreams," Stiles says. "It made me calmer. I don't know why. I felt more in control. I could focus better, even if it did leave me feeling shit sometimes.” He shakes his head. “I’m - I'm just sorry.

Derek places a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Don’t _ever_ apologise for what you went through. I know I don’t know, that I wasn’t there. You don’t need to talk about it but I do know the way I found you last night wasn’t...it wasn’t…”

“No, that’s not- but I guess that too.”

Derek frowns, taking a step back. “I don’t understand.”

“I found out what you’d been through,” Stiles throws up his hands. “I rifled through my dad’s case files. I asked around. I _knew,_ everything except Kate until that summer, and I was pissed you wouldn't just trust me. I never gave you a reason to trust me. I suppose I never give anyone a reason,” he snorts, “not even my own dad.”

Derek stares; at first past Stiles and then at him.

“I’m sorry I got angry when you said you didn’t trust me. I'm sorry I let you fall to the bottom of that pool without telling you I'd come back first. I'm sorry for so many things. I feel like I’m never going to trust anyone again. I feel shittier than I ever did and I don’t deserve half of what I still have - my friends, my dad. But you? You lost the very last person you trusted and _I fucking dug her up_.”

Derek can’t answer for a long time. It always hurts when someone mentions his family; never fails to make him want to curl up into a ball and shut out the rest of the world. Right now is no different but there’s something about Stiles that makes it a little more bearable, like the night he told him about Kate. Derek doesn’t know why and he doesn’t know if he will ever know. Stiles is like Paige in so many ways, he realises, and yet, he is nothing like her. Paige made him feel like a Hale, what he thought he was; cocky, part of something, special. A basket ball star. Stiles makes him...Stiles makes him want to play. He cuts him open. Stiles makes him feel like one day it might be okay to -

He blinks.  

“I’m glad you asked me to trust you,” he whispers, taking a breath. “You gave me someone to trust in again. I - didn't think that was possible."

Stiles’ eyes go wide. “You mean...wait. Me?” He almost squeaks and it makes Derek smile. “You actually _trust_ me, dude? Wait, I should film this. _Derek Hale trusts temporary ex psycho killer_. We’ll run it in the papers.”

“You,” Derek says, glaring because it’s expected of him.

Happiness injects itself into Stiles’ scent but it disappears quickly, swallowed by something bitter, doubtful. Derek can see the exact moment where he thinks Derek is lying or deluded.

Taking another breath, Derek forces himself not to look away as he admits, “I know what it’s like to hate yourself, to feel guilty about something. But, it wasn't you. You were possessed. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

Stiles shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. I remember liking the power,” he says, somewhat defensively, like he's trying to make Derek agree with him. It's easier that way sometimes, Derek knows, but there's something else in Stiles' eyes...something Derek doesn't understand yet.

“I’m not surprised. You’re surrounded by people stronger than you, every day. Wanting to feel more powerful isn’t a crime. It’s human.”

Stiles considers this, looking past him. "No, you don't understand. I _liked_ the power and that...that terrifies me." He closes his eyes. "I'm...I've never thought of myself as nice and I'm not. I don't have much of a moral code. I'm not Scott but -" he frowns, shaking his head. "Thank you,” he whispers, after a moment. “I - I wouldn’t have made it tonight, without you. You're, uh...a good person...for answering.”

“You would have,” Derek says, truthfully. _You defeated a thousand year old fox. You held me up in a pool for hours. You’re a fighter._ “But you called, so there’s that."

“There’s that,” Stiles nods, smirking a little. “How-" he swallows, scratching the back of his neck. "How did you know what was wrong? Earlier, you said you knew.”

Derek considers not answering but he knows he can't deny Stiles this. Not when it might help him.

“When Laura took us to New York, after the fire, I-” he falters, stepping back, glancing down at his feet.

Stiles follows him, stepping into his space, but he doesn’t try to touch. Derek appreciates it, knowing Stiles must be craving contact right now, even if he doesn’t realise he is.

“I never told her about…Kate.”

He waits for Stiles’ scent to darken, to judge, but it doesn’t change - not even a little - and he lets out a shaky breath, looking up.

“Eventually I found some clubs. I was seventeen. I saw whips and punishment and immediately, I was drawn in.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “It was bad. I wasn’t looking for a way to escape my thoughts, like you. I wasn’t even looking for sex. I _definitely_ wasn’t looking for sex. What I wanted was punishment, for Kate. The first chance I got, I offered myself up to a Dom without knowing...I didn’t even know what a Dom _was._ ” He can still remember him now. Not his face, but the way his hands had felt on him. Handled him. Beat him.

“When he saw the marks he made disappearing, he ran out on me. I didn’t go back for a few weeks but I did go back. I needed it too much. I researched it a little, thought if I couldn't submit, I could dominate. I learned pretty quickly I liked it just as much. Sometimes I'd still seek out people to punish me, other werewolves, but I liked making people feel good. I liked caring for them." He shrugs. "By the time Laura wanted to come back here, I hadn't subbed in a year, focusing all my energy on making up for what I did by…”

“Helping?”

Derek nods.

“Did you date?" Stiles asks.

“I never did anything outside the club. I had a few regulars, people I got to know. When we came back here, I never... I didn’t have time to think about it anymore.”

“Ever?” Stiles asks. It’s not a real question, just something to say, but something pulls at Derek, hearing it, wondering-

 _Not Stiles,_ he reminds himself, thinking back to the Nogitsune, the promise he made.

“No.” He shakes his head. It’s the truth but Stiles doesn't seem convinced. Derek thinks he's about to say something, ask something, but the moment he makes a sound, he stops it.

"Oh," is all he says.

Want and shame pour from him and Derek sighs, closing his eyes, because he knows. He _knows_ what Stiles is suddenly too nervous to ask for and Derek- god help him, he _wants_ to give it to him. Stiles shouldn't have to feel ashamed about needing this, especially not when it's dangerous. Especially not when Derek knows first hand how much it can help, if done right.

“I could be your Dom. If that's something you want.”

He doesn’t expect the words to come out his mouth but the way Stiles looks up at him, hopeful and - shit - relieved, makes him happy they did. He can protect Stiles this way, if that's what Stiles wants. He can give him what he needs.

He can help.

“You’d do that for me?” Stiles asks, heartbeat loud, erratic.

“You’re pack,” Derek shrugs.

“I am?”

“You've always kind of felt like it,” he forces himself to admit. “I care about you, I suppose. What happens to you. I’d like - I'd like to help, if you're comfortable with the idea.” He draws in a breath, hoping it’s the right offer, that this isn’t Kate all over again; something he’s getting into too quickly.

Stiles blinks twice before smiling, shaking his head. “Sorry. I meant to say yes. Yes, I’d like that. A lot. If - you’re really offering me this?”

"Yes," Derek says, feeling a little shy, grinning cockily to cover it up. “I’m really offering you this.”

***

Stiles uses Derek’s phone to call Scott and then, a little more hesitantly, his dad. They both show up at the loft within seconds of one another.

Scott’s fangs immediately drop the moment he enters in the room. He can probably smell the same damage Derek did- the blood, the pain- but Derek knows he can also smell _him_ on Stiles. He tenses, bracing himself - not wanting to say anything without Stiles' permission - but as soon as Scott begins to turn on him, Stiles stands in front of him and…stares Scott down?

Scott stops in his tracks, reading Stiles’ face, gaze flickering between them both.

“Dude, I’m fine,” Stiles says. Scott tilts his head to the side, wary, but when Stiles says it again, shooting finger guns at him, he breathes a sigh of relief.

The Sheriff doesn’t give Scott time to say something though, barrelling towards his son, wrapping him up in a hug. Derek watches as Stiles suppresses a wince, something tender being pressed on, burying his face in his dad’s shoulder.

“I’ve had half the department out looking for you,” he reprimands, pulling back, scanning Stiles' - thankfully unmarked- face before hugging him again. “I thought something had happened.”

The _again_ goes unsaid.

Stiles shakes his head, grinning, light and easy, and it makes Derek wonder just how practised Stiles is at pretending everything's okay when it isn't. It took Derek years to learn how to do that. Selfishly, he doesn't know if it makes him envious of Stiles, or sorry.

“The Jeep broke down and my phone died," Stiles says, making a show of rolling his eyes. "Derek’s was a closer walk _and,_ as it turns out, sour face over here isn’t bad company. We fell asleep watching a movie. Sorry.” He shrugs, looking briefly at Scott over his dad’s shoulder.

The Sheriff sighs. “I hate that car.”

“No you don’t,” Stiles whispers, hugging him tighter.

Scott, for his part, looks less like he wants to kill someone- namely Derek- but there’s a hurt look in his eyes at the lie, and Stiles immediately looks away from it.

Sighing, Stiles steps back. “Look. Let’s just address the elephant in the room.  I know you've both been worried about me and I’ve been...distant. I just haven’t been sleeping, nightmares, and I know this is going to sound crazy, but for the first time in _months_ , I fell asleep. Here.” Smiling, he turns to Derek. “I don’t know if Derek’s couch is laced with some kind of werewolf sleeping magic, or if it’s just really, freaking comfortable, but I’ve not felt this...relieved in weeks. I asked, and Derek said I could, uh, stay here. Just until I can recharge!”

It’s a good lie, one his heartbeat backs up.

Scott eyes Derek suspiciously but the look softens when he glances back to Stiles, who is giving him an awkward thumbs up. Derek rolls his eyes, hoping it doesn’t look fond.

“Okay,” Scott finally says. The Sheriff folds his arms and raises an eyebrow in his direction. Derek can't help but hide a smile, for nothing else than the fact Stiles does the same. Scott looks down sheepishly at the floor. “Sorry.”

“Look, kid,” the Sheriff says, pinching the bridge of his noise. “We can get you help. Work out something that doesn’t interfere with your medication.” He scratches his head. “You've got school in two weeks and I’m sure Derek would appreciate not having a-” He stops, whatever he is about to say fading into a knowing look. Stiles’ face falls and the nods, swallowing.

“If I may,” Derek cuts in, making sure to use his “polite voice”, the one he reserves for old ladies and ticket officers. “I’m happy for Stiles to stay. Ever since Cora left, I’ve missed having someone around to...sleep on the couch."

The Sheriff looks sceptical. “Son-” he starts, but Derek cuts him off.

"Really, it’s fine,” he adds, realising just how fine it _would_ be to have another body around. Someone whose scent gets caught on the furniture; someone to talk to late at night; someone who smells like home.

Looking at Stiles, Derek can't deny it's something he desperately wants; has never stopped wanted since Laura. A friend. Even if he would rather not admit it.

This time, it’s the Sheriff’s face falling, and Derek realises too late he’s staring at a picture of him and Laura, the only one he has of them, sitting next to Laura’s favourite book, _The Princess Bride,_ on the shelf. The Sheriff was there when the fire happened. Derek still remembers him: a cop with a blanket and a gentle voice, reassuring him and Laura as they cried. They’re both older now and the he may have arrested him but the Sheriff is still that cop and Derek suspects he’s not forgotten that scared kid, sitting in the back of his cruiser, repeating the words _I’m sorry_ over and over again like a broken record.

He’s about to say something about needing help with decorating or a paint job instead, something that takes the knowing _look_ away, but then the Sheriff is nodding and it’s too late.

“Just call me if you need anything. Okay, kiddo?” He turns back to Stiles, whose eyes widen.

“Wait. What - I mean, sure thing, dad.” He salutes him and the Sheriff nods, giving Stiles - and then Derek - a once over, before heading back towards the door. “Need a ride home, Scott?”

“No,” Scott says, staying where he is. “I’ve got my bike.”

Nodding a final time, the Sheriff leaves, but Scott hovers by the door, waiting, like he still thinks Stiles has got something to say to him.

Stiles grins but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn't move closer either, even though Derek can see he wants to. Derek still remembers how hard that call had been to make to Laura the first time he had dropped; remembers how much he had wished there had been anyone else to phone - anyone at all - not wanting to see the look on his sister’s face when he told her what had happened. Stiles sees Scott as his brother and Derek gets it - he’s Stiles' 'anyone at all'.  

“I’m okay now, buddy. I'll talk to you later.”

Scott looks like he wants to argue, hands clenching, but he holds back whatever it is he's going to say. “My phone won’t be out of my sight,” he says, instead. Stiles nods. “I mean it. I’ll have it on, like, _all_ the time.”

“And I appreciate that,” Stiles winks. “Now, go eat some breakfast, Scotty. To the waffles!” He puts his hands on his hips, superhero style, smiling again, wider, and Derek can see it’s getting harder for him to force.

He's two seconds from ushering Scott out the door himself - it's not like anyone thinks he’s a nice person anyway- but thankfully, Scott takes the waffles cue and, literally, walks with it.

Stiles sinks to the floor as soon as the door closes, bringing his knees up and burying his head between them.

Derek listens to his uneven breaths, giving him a moment - giving himself a moment- as Scott gets on his bike and drives out of hearing range.

“They’re both gone,” he says, a minute later.

Stiles look up at him, water in his eyes. “Is it weird that’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do?”

Derek shakes his head. “No.” He drops to the floor, crawling until he can sit behind Stiles, urging him lean back against him. It's odd, he thinks, how easily it is to fall back into old habits. Taking care of someone. “Pretty normal actually.”

Stiles snorts, muttering something about normal even Derek can’t pick up on, sinking back easily. “I’m not ashamed of the - you know. _Stuff_ . I, uh, want you to know that. If I hadn’t got into this way-” He shrugs. “It's just not something I want to bring up in front of my dad. _Ever_. Even if I thought he could do something about Lu-" He makes a sound, painfully vulnerable, and Derek wraps his arms around him, instinctively.   

“I know. It’s okay, you don’t have to explain yourself to me."

Stiles barks a laugh. "Wiser and older, you are."

Derek rolls his eyes. Oh, how he did _not_ miss the Yoda impressions.

“No-one is going to push you to talk. About anything," he says, determined not to let Stiles deflect. "We don’t have to go the hospital either. I’d be able to smell any diseases or infections in your blood stream. There’s nothing, but if you want to go and get checked out, I'll take you.”

“Uh, no, that’s...I’m good. I think.”

“We all find ways to cope with the shit we have to deal with and if this - me doing this for you - is going to help you, then-” He bites his lip. “A lot of people practice BDSM because it’s what turns them on. For others, it’s what they need. Some use it to combat stress, leave themselves behind. Some just like having more or less control in their lives. It's - it’s all fine. Everything, it's- you're fine. You’re going to be fine."

“I think...” Stiles whispers, playing with a loose thread on his t-shirt, “...that’s the longest you’ve ever spoken about something not supernatural related.”

Derek feels himself blush. "Yeah, well. I suck at conversation."

"We'll see about that.”

Derek blinks, raising an eyebrow, even though Stiles can’t see him. "You planning on giving me lessons or something?"

"No," he says, rather ambiguously. _Too_ ambiguously.

He blinks again. "Okay", he whispers. “ _No_ it is.”

Stiles snorts, twisting a little. "Thank you," he says.

Unsure if he's meant to answer, Derek holds him a little tighter.

***

They don’t talk for the rest of the day which Derek is thankful for, not used to making as much conversation as he has been, even if Stiles isn’t at his usual level.

Instead, he gives Stiles his biggest sweater, leaving him curled up on the couch watching _Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure _on Netflix, coming back ten minutes later to finish his book from the night before. He remains close, but not close enough to invade Stiles’ personal space.

~

Derek is on the last chapter, _has_ been for the past twenty minutes, constantly getting distracted by Stiles’ running commentary of the movie.

“Mrs McCall always said they were our movie selves.”

Derek raises his eyes to the screen, intrigued. “Which one are you?”

“Bill, obviously," Stiles snorts. "He’s the one with all the brains. Or, you know, the big words. Scott’s Ted because they both go dopey eyed around pretty girls.” Derek can’t help but laugh, grinning when Stiles’ scent picks up at the sound.

Making Stiles happy, even if only for a moment, triggers something in him he hasn't felt in a long time. It reminds him of movie nights with his family. How, when his dad used to laugh, they all used to laugh, no matter what he was laughing at. It reminds him of home - maybe too much - and Derek doesn't know whether to feel good or guilty.

“Sounds accurate,” he says, returning to his book.

Sometime between the budding friendship between Socrates and Billy the Kid and the abduction of Abraham Lincoln, Derek’s full attention is trained on the TV. He hasn’t watched a movie since New York and even then, he could never bring himself to watch a comedy. Laura did, they helped her, but Derek couldn’t make himself watch anything but horrors. He was addicted to them.

“Derek?” Stiles whispers, interrupting the thought.

“Something wrong?” he asks, turning around and frowning, sensing Stiles’ nervousness.

“The guy who - I was just wondering, could we maybe-" he swallows thickly. "Do you think we could talk before we...do anything? There was this guy, Brian. He talked to me but we - we never did anything that, uh, serious. At least, I don’t think we did.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Talking, though, we did that. Kind of, and it made me...feel better.” He stops, as if trying to psyche himself up for something, and Derek waits for him to continue. The longer he waits, however, the more panicked Stiles seems to get. Leaning in, Derek takes one of his hands. He remembers one of his subs used to like that and Stiles does too, if the way he suddenly relaxes is any indication.

“This… _other_ guy,” Derek says, slowly. “He never talked to you about what you were doing? At all?”

Stiles shakes his head and Derek’s stomach sinks. It’s worse than he thought.

“He should have. Before, after and during.”

“Oh,” Stiles whispers. "I didn’t know that. I mean, I knew that _maybe -_ but I thought - he was the boss, you know? Or it was just like a preference thing. Isn't that..." He trails off, looking upset with himself.

_The boss._

Derek feels his eyes begin to bleed red. Blinking, he focuses on Stiles' scent to ground him.  

“Hey,” he says, raising his hand to tilt Stiles’ chin up. “It wasn’t your job to know. You are new at this. It was his job. You're not to blame, okay?” Stiles, sadly, looks more confused and Derek's stomach sinks even further. “We’re going to talk about everything. Not tonight, though. Tomorrow.”

Stiles bites his lip. “I should have done my own research _,_ ” he says, avoiding Derek’s gaze.

“Maybe,” he says, because it’s honest. “Doesn’t excuse what he did.”

“Okay,” Stiles nods, but he doesn’t sound convinced, even as he reaches out to trace Derek’s eyebrows. “So funny,” he comments, smiling, and Derek glares because _yes,_ he _knows_ they disappear. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

Stiles’ stomach grumbles, answering for him, but Stiles shakes his head. “I am, I suppose, but I _really_ don’t feel up to it.”

Derek considers this for a moment. He needs to get Stiles to eat. One bite of a pancake isn’t going to cut it. “Loss of appetite is pretty common” – he refrains from saying _after_ – “but you need to eat.” He pauses. “Would you let me try something that might help encourage you?”

Stiles’ eyes grow curious. It's a look Derek has often seen before - wary and assessing - but after a second, Stiles nods, hands beginning to fidget on his knees. Derek immediately stills them.

“Stay there," he says, trying to sound commanding but failing, his voice far too soft. He’s going to have to learn to be dominant around Stiles, rather than just backing him up against walls and snarking at him, if this is going to work, he realises. For now though, he thinks soft will do, even if it does scare the shit out of him. "I’ll be right back.”

Taking a breath, he walks towards the kitchen. There’s some leftover pizza in the fridge and he quickly unwraps it, placing a couple of slices on the first plate he can find that isn’t plastic - he learned _that_ lesson a long time ago - and slides it into the microwave. Fighting the urge to sit with Stiles as the timer counts down, he looks over his shoulder.

Stiles isn’t looking at him, facing the TV. He’s not watching it though, eyes staring blankly at the screen, body a little shaky. Normally, it's something he likes to see in a sub - nervous anticipation - but it doesn't sit right on Stiles. Stiles is usually so jittery anyway. He needs to be held still, helped to go pliant and relaxed. He needs to feel safe and Derek suspects he hasn't in a long time.

The timer finally beeping, Derek takes the plate back over to Stiles, sitting it down on the table in front of him.

“I’m going to ask you to do something but you don’t have to. If you don’t like the idea, you can say no. Understand?”

Surprise washes over Stiles, like he didn't expect to get the choice, and Derek bites on the inside of his cheek.  

“Got it,” Stiles says after a moment, hesitantly, as though the words are for Derek and not for him, nodding and looking up into Derek’s eyes. Waiting for instruction.

Derek pauses, considering whether this is actually a good idea, but when Stiles' eyes grow wider - pleading, almost - he gives in.

“I'm going to feed you and I want you to kneel for me while I do it.”

Stiles frowns. Obviously he had been expecting Derek to say something else, maybe something more intense or sexual, but he’s quick to nod, seeming happy with the request, sliding off the couch and on to the floor.

“Wait,” Derek tells him, reaching behind Stiles and pulling the cushion from its place on the couch, sitting it on the floor beside him. “It will be more comfortable if you kneel on it.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says, politely.

Derek smiles, a little amused, sitting on the couch, before picking up the first pizza slice, making sure Stiles is comfortable before raising it to his lips. Stiles makes a tired face at it but on glancing back at Derek, he takes a bite anyway.

“Good boy,” he praises, without thinking, and Stiles blushes, a pleased smile gracing his face as he takes another bite and chews. Derek wonders if he’s been called that before.

The next bite is larger and a splash of sauce gets on Stiles’ chin. He lifts a hand to wipe it but Derek stops him with a firm “no”, urging him to take another mouthful instead. He doesn't miss the way Stiles’ body goes lax at the word, sinking into him as he eats the rest of the pizza in small, tentative bites in a manner so wholly unlike himself it makes Derek's stomach clench uncomfortably.

Derek plans to discard the crust, but the way Stiles’ head moves forward shyly, parting his lips, he changes his mind. “Finish it,” he whispers.

Stiles responds immediately, eating the last morsel before slowly licking Derek’s fingers; small, kitten licks that cause Derek’s breath to catch.

“This feels nice,” Stiles says, still sounding a touch confused, and Derek reaches for the second slice.

“I’m glad. Thank you for telling me.”

Stiles’ eyes move to catch Derek’s and he smiles again, easy and unforced. Derek has never noticed Stiles’ smile before. Or rather, hasn’t thought much about it, and the word _beautiful_ enters his head before he realises he’s staring.

He shakes his head.

Stiles eats the second slice like the first, waiting again when he gets to the end, waiting for Derek’s permission. It doesn’t surprise Derek. He catches on fast to everything. Derek isn’t so sure he couldn’t teach Stiles a new language and not have him pick it up in less than a week. With the proper motivation, Derek would take that bet.

“I thought we could finish this and then go to bed,” he says, watching Stiles finish. It’s almost graceful, the way he leans back on his heels, closing his eyes, mouth still open.

“Cool,” Stiles replies. He looks sated and even though Derek knows he isn’t anywhere near okay, at least he isn’t shaking anymore. “The couch is actually pretty comfy,” he continues, blinking his eyes open again. “I wasn’t lying before about that.”

Derek frowns. "The couch?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “To sleep on. Duh.”

Derek looks at his hands, his words catching in his throat.

“Do you want you to sleep in my bed with me?” he asks, after a moment. “Fully clothed,” he adds, in case Stiles misinterprets his intentions. “You can borrow some sweats and a t-shirt. I just…leaving you alone...my bed is easier to…be with you on.”

Derek wants to punch himself.

“Some subs like to be left alone after subspace,” he goes on, wanting to explain. “That’s the floating feeling you get. But subdrop is different and…what you’ve been through is also…different.” _Disgusting._ “I think the physical contact would be good for you, if it’s something you’d be...comfortable with.”

Stiles takes a moment to process this before whispering, “I really don’t want to be left alone. I just, uh, didn’t want to seem needy, I guess? I’m not used to you being so...” He waves his hands, not finishing, but Derek understands. _Understanding. Sympathetic. Nice._ He frowns.

“Always tell me what you need. I’ll give it to you.”

“Even if it’s something as pathetic as a hug?” Stiles asks, genuinely looking like Derek might say no.

“Especially if all you want is a hug.”

Bending down, he makes a snap decision to scoop Stiles up in his arms, ignoring the indignant protest he gets about “undignified bridal carrying”.

 _There you_ _are,_ Derek wants to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend and I were watching [ Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jF6Ay9gxMS0) last week and- like always- a TW character comparison came up. I don't know whether to be proud we do this so often, or worried, but I don't see it stopping any time soon so I'm going to roll happily with it. Thing is, it is _such_ a Stiles and Scott movie- if you haven't seen it, go and watch it! It's bound to make you smile!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't quite realise it had been 18 months since I updated this. For those of you who were waiting for the next chapter, here it is. Finally. I plan on seeing this fic through to the end and I just want to take a moment to say how grateful I am to all of you for sticking around and being patient with me.

“Here,” Derek says, setting Stiles down in front of a -

“You have an _en-suite_?” he can’t help but splutter, eyes wide.

“Uh, yes,” Derek says, frowning, like Derek I-used-to-live-in-a-train-car Hale having a bathroom with a _functioning_ _door_ isn’t a _big freaking deal._ It’s kind of beautiful actually, considering this _is_ Derek. Stiles kind of wants to laugh, perhaps a little hysterically, but he keeps his mouth firmly closed, scared, even though he’s laughed at Derek a thousand times and nothing has ever happened to him.

“Sorry, man. I just...a _door,_ you know?”

Derek raises an eyebrow, nodding, before turning away.

And it’s pathetic, really, the surge of panic that runs through him the moment he loses sight of Derek’s face.

 _He isn’t even going anywhere_ , he tells himself, breath catching in his throat as he watches him turn back a second later, a bottle in hand.

“It’s antiseptic,” Derek says, holding it out to him. “I can put it on for you but...it’s probably best if...well. Here.” His tone is direct but soft - gentle, almost - and Stiles smiles, looking down at his feet, remembering the first time he saw Derek. _Asshole,_ he remembers thinking, and _woah_ . He never expected Derek to be kind or soft. At least, not with him, even though he knew he was - _is_ \- capable.  

Shaking himself out, he looks up, focusing on Derek’s hands. It’s nothing more than a little ointment, something to soothe the pain, but the longer he looks at it, the more nauseous he feels. It reminds him of the bottle Lucas used, some foul smelling lube; tasted even worse.

He doesn’t realise he’s trembling or - _fuck_ \- crying until Derek pushes the bottle into his hands, running his thumbs slowly over his knuckles until he can hold it properly.

“Thanks. I’d…I’d like to be alone, yeah,” Stiles says. He isn’t sure if it’s a lie, or if Derek hears it, but he supposes it doesn’t matter, even though part of him - a big part - wants Derek to take the bottle back and take charge.  

He doesn’t remember the last time someone took care of him, just...took over. At least, he doesn’t remember the last time he didn’t feel guilty, aware how much of a burden he is. When he was sick, when he was sad, his mom had always been there with a smile, speaking quietly in Polish, like that time in fourth grade when Jackson told him Santa wasn’t real, or when Tiffany Waters told him he couldn’t be a superhero because his moles were ugly. Blinking, he realises he can’t even think about her without feeling guilty now. It’s enough he’s scared he might break down right here, in front of Derek.

_How am I supposed to take care of him, Melissa? Claudia knew how to handle him. I don’t._

_You take care of him like you always have, John. By being there for him._

_What if I don’t want to be?_

Glancing back up at Derek, Stiles’ stomach churns unpleasantly. He doesn’t have it in him to walk out the door, to say forget it. He can’t go home, but he doesn’t know how to not make himself a burden, especially to Derek. He isn’t even sure Derek actually _likes_ him, despite what he said about trusting him.   

“You can use the shower if you like,” Derek says, snapping him out of his thoughts, causing him to drop the bottle. They both look down before Stiles scrambles after it, laughing nervously.

“Slippery,” he says, laughing some more.

“Just make sure it’s cool, not hot,” Derek adds, looking him over carefully, nostrils flaring a little. His mouth turns down. “Stiles, I...”

“It’s fine. Really. It’s just a few bruises and broken skin, they’ll heal.”

“It’s more than that, Stiles. Believe me, I know. Not in the same way but...I know.”

Stiles nods, afraid to speak in case he babbles or cries again but something must give him away - that he’s holding on by a thread - because the next thing he knows, Derek is kissing the top of his head. It’s unexpected, despite everything that’s happened today, and Stiles is forced to look up. Strong, not quite green, eyes look back at him and Stiles pushes out a breath. They’re beautiful eyes, he thinks. Not that he _hasn’t_ noticed Derek’s eyes before but...damn what colour even _are_ they?  

Finally, he manages to nod, clutching the bottle tighter and slipping into the bathroom.

***

It’s mostly bruises. Well, that’s as much as Stiles can _figure_ without looking in the mirror, anyway.

He supposes it could have been worse. Lucas could have gone for his shins, broken a few bones. Hell, he could have gone for his _face._ As it is, it’s just skin that’s damaged; fleshy bits that can stand to take a bit of a beating. He hopes he doesn’t take long to heal this time, wonders if there will be scars. The Nogitsune left a few - big ugly things down his chest and back that Lucas loved to comment on. He’s become an expert on not looking at them, ashamed and, now, humiliated.

He starts gently with the wash cloth but he still winces, dried blood stubbornly sticking to his skin, patches of hair. He should use the shower, like Derek said, but the thought of watching the blood wash down the drain makes him dizzy. Instead, he continues dabbing the cloth over his skin, focusing on his knuckles; white from how hard he he gripping the sink.

He applies the lotion liberally, sighing at the relief it provides, hoping it’s not expensive. Knowing Derek, it could be worth one dollar or a hundred, depending. There’s a full length mirror to the left of him but he doesn’t want to see the rest of the bruising, doesn’t care if he hasn’t gotten all the blood. If there’s a risk of infection, Derek will smell it.

He doesn’t waste time in getting back to Derek. He knows it’s weird, whatever this is, when they are barely even friends, but it’s not something he is particularly willing to question right now. Not when Derek get-off-of-me Hale has _literally_ opened his arms to him, like some kind of free cuddling service. The ridiculous image makes him smile, if only for a moment, thinking about Derek in one of those t-shirts that read ‘Free Hugs’.

 _Especially if all you want is a hug._ He shakes his head, convinced he’s about to wake up any second now.

Derek probably has a thousand other things he would rather be doing than this, but Stiles knows himself and he would be lying if he thought, even for a moment, he wouldn’t go back out and find another Lucas if it meant keeping the nightmares at bay. It scares him that’s the least terrifying thought he’s had in a while.   

Derek is standing with a loose pair of sweatpants when he opens the door and Stiles laughs, awkward, wondering if he’s been standing there the whole time, waiting. It makes him feel guilty, but oddly pleased.

Pausing, he looks down at himself, face heating up.

“I didn’t want to, um...risk putting a towel around me in case it took the lotion off before it… absorbs or whatever,” he says, retreating back slightly, hiding behind the door. Derek’s eyes widen, like he hadn’t been thinking, and he averts his gaze, holding the sweatpants out in front of him.

“Of course.”

He and Derek are roughly the same height but the sweatpants are big, and when Stiles slips into them he has to hold them up so they don’t fall down.

“Should I get in?” he asks, referring to the bed, jumping when Derek comes to stand behind him. He turns instantly to apologise but then he remembers... _not_ Lucas; the hands on his shoulders are safe, even when at his throat.

“You never have to ask,” Derek says, nudging him forward like a skittish horse, or deer. Probably a deer because, _werewolf._ He frowns. Do werewolves even hunt? He can’t imagine Scott hunting.

“Isn’t that how this kind of relationship works?” he asks, trying not to fidget. “Lu- he, uh, always made me ask? For permission?”

Derek walks around to the other side of the bed. “Did you like that? Is it something you need?”

Stiles shakes his head. No, he hadn’t liked it. It hadn’t done anything for him, actually. “But isn’t...that just part of the…dynamic?” He rubs the back of his neck. “You, uh, _Dom_ me...and in return I do what you want. Right?”

“No.” Derek shakes his head. “Unless we’re in a scene, nothing changes. Not if we don’t speak about it first _and_ discuss what it would mean, for both of us. You don’t...it’s give and take.” He frowns. “You’re not mine to do with as I please, Stiles. There are rules.”

He expects the answer but it doesn’t help him feel any less stupid. “Oh,” he whispers, mimicking Derek, climbing into bed. “So, you don’t…control me then?”

Derek stares at him, looking uncomfortable, before shifting and tucking one arm under his pillow. Stiles tries to do the same, trying not to make a face as he attempts, as gracelessly as possible, to turn to lie on his side. Derek reaches out, as if to stable him, but he doesn’t touch.  

“Some people like being in that kind of relationship,” he answers, after Stiles is settled. “Having their actions controlled, having to ask for permission for even the most basic things. In some cases, to be literally objectified, used as furniture, that sort of thing.” He looks away. “I...I’d rather not do that. It’s kind of a hard limit for me.”

“Hard limit?”

Derek blinks, frowning again. “Something I refuse to do.”

“Right,” Stiles says. Another thing he should have known. He worries his lip. “So, just to be clear, I can, like, eat whenever I want? You won't, you know, spank me or something if I do?” It’s hard to get the words out, to say something like _spank me_ to Derek Hale, but it’s even harder waiting for the answer. Stiles knows this is a big deal for Derek, especially given his sexual history (which Stiles is sure he doesn’t even know the _half_ of). Derek doesn’t actually want him, not like Brian or Lucas had, but for whatever reason this _is_ happening and Stiles doesn’t want to give a reason to doubt it.

“I will never punish you unless you disobey me during a scene,” Derek says, calmly, like he’s talking about the weather, taking Stiles’ hand where it’s fidgeting by his side. It’s weird, at first, but it’s also more comforting than anything Stiles has felt in a long time. Derek Hale holds hands. Who knew?

“Stiles, are you listening to me?”

“Huh?” he startles, looking back up at Derek’s face.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Nothing will ever happen if you don’t want it to. Not even a punishment. Real punishments don’t even have to be a thing, if you don’t want them to be. It’s all roleplay. There are no set rules. Mouth off to me as much as you like. Be _you._ Eat what you want and when you want. I’ll only act on what you say or do outside of a scene if I think you’re deliberately trying to get punished, and even then, we’d still talk about it beforehand.” He smiles reassuringly and Stiles nods, trying to process the information.

“We can discuss these things tomorrow,” Derek says. “Not that we’ll be acting on anything for a while. At least, nothing sexual. Not until you’re ready.”

“I’m nearly eighteen, you know,” Stiles can’t help but point out, even if the thought of no sex _does_ calm his nerves a little. He can’t quite compute sex with Derek in his mind but then again, Derek said nothing _sexual._ He never said they were going to have sex. It probably isn’t even an option, he realises, and why would it be? It’s not like he compares to Derek, even a little, when it comes to sex appeal.

“I know. It’s...not that,” Derek says. “Age is one thing but being emotionally ready is...it’s different. Someone can be ready for sex at seventeen and someone else could be twenty-nine and still not be ready.” He frowns, as if remembering something. Stiles swallows, wondering if he’s thinking about Kate. He _hopes_ Derek isn’t. “It’s about making sure you can consent. That’s what’s important.”

Stiles lift a shoulder. “We can wait a bit for…the sexual stuff. Maybe not _too_ long,” he smiles, trying to sound confident, “but, yeah, I can wait. Let my head clear a bit, I suppose.” He rolls his eyes, grinning, feeling like it’s expected of him. In return, Derek gives him a silent nod. It spins Stiles’ head and he doesn’t know if it’s because Derek is so different from Lucas or because Derek is so different from... _Derek_.

“Please never stop arguing with me,” Derek adds a moment later, a fond expression crossing his face. “You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.”

Stiles laughs, a little incredulous. “It wouldn’t that make me a bad sub?” he half-jokes.  

“Only if you argued with me during a scene,” Derek answers seriously, no hint of a smile now.  “Although that wouldn’t make you a _bad_ sub, just a defiant one. I’ll never genuinely be angry with you, Stiles. As I said, it’s all role play. We’re still us the rest of the time. If I was angry with you, for whatever reason, I wouldn’t deal with that anger as your Dom.”

“Sounds fake but okay.”

“I mean it, Stiles.”

Stiles blinks, assessing Derek’s face. He’s not amused, not in the slightest, and it puts him at ease.

“Asshole by day and a good boy by night?” he jokes again, not too sure where the ‘good boy’ part comes from, thinking back to earlier, when Derek was feeding him. Brian used to call him that sometimes but it never did much for him.

“Maybe even a _good boy_ by the day and an asshole by night,” Derek says, grinning.

Stiles’ skin tingles and he shuffles closer.

Derek doesn’t touch him, much to his disappointment, but he does move his free hand just above Stiles’ head. It’s nice, odd, and he counts in his head, one to ten over and over again, until everything finally goes dark.

***

When Stiles wakes, he’s alone.

At first, he thinks he's still dreaming, but the moment he notices Derek’s old leather jacket lying on top of him, he knows he’s not. He couldn't create Derek's leather jacket in a dream, even if he wanted to. The smell alone is too unique, like burnt candy or Autumn, and it comforts him in a way he’s too tired to understand. 

He woke up several times during the night, the same dreams spinning around and around his head, but Derek’s arms had been there every time he cried out, holding him, soothing him, murmuring nonsense. It was ridiculous. Stiles shakes his head, toying with the jacket’s sleeve. He isn’t certain he will ever learn how to get used to Derek like this but he likes it, thinks he could...wonders if Derek will ever learn to like him. 

Stiles swallows. He isn’t sure anyone ever  _ could _ like him, not all of him, but sometimes (in down right crazy moments) he thinks Derek could. Or, at least, he thinks Derek could understand him. He has no idea why. 

Getting up, he walks to the door and slowly opens it, peaking out. He can’t hear anything coming from downstairs and he makes sure to tread lightly as he walks out onto the landing, before pausing.

_ You’re not going to be punished for being loud.  _

He looks over his shoulder, heart hammering.

Lucas didn’t like it when he tried to get up before him in the mornings, not even if he was desperate to use the bathroom. Stiles’ cheeks burn at  _ that  _ particular memory and he shakes out his arms, fighting the bile rising in his throat.

_ Nothing will ever happen to you if you don’t want it to.  _ Derek's words ring in his ears but they barely soothe him, half expecting Lucas to be at the bottom of the stairs when he goes down.

Taking a breath, he closes his eyes and wraps one arm around himself. He thinks, momentarily, about going back for a t-shirt but he isn’t cold. He isn’t...anything, really, and clutching at Derek’s sweatpants with his free hand, he makes his way down the staircase.

Part of him is surprised Derek isn’t in the kitchen but instead sitting on the sofa in front of the television, an episode of Game of Thrones muted in the background. He’s not watching though, head bowed, reading something. A book, perhaps, and something tugs at the corner of Stiles’ mouth. He knows Derek is smart - he knows as much random information as him sometimes and _that’s_ saying something - but it never occurred to him he, well, read _real_ books. At least, like a normal person, anyway.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his curiosity getting the better of him as he approaches.

Derek doesn’t answer right away, lifting his eyes, running them over Stiles’ face, assessing, like he’s some kind of test he is preparing for. It’s unnerving and Stiles wraps his arms around himself, uncomfortable, wondering what’s wrong. He is about to make a joke, say something about Derek’s poor taste in wall art (is that really a painting of a unicorn  _ dancing  _ in the corner?) but before he can, Derek puts what he’s reading to one side, opens up his arms and-

Oh. Okay.

Stiles finds himself in Derek’s arms a little too quickly, putting his head on his shoulder and squirming, trying to get comfortable. He feels a little like a toddler and despite feeling awkward ( _ more  _ than awkward), he’s too exhausted to care.

“I understand the need for…contact,” Derek says, after a moment - an explanation, perhaps. Not that Stiles was pushing (hoping) for one.  

“I’m not complaining,” he whispers, shrugging, because Derek Hale is letting him _snuggle_ and isn’t that _..._ something. After last night, Stiles knows snuggling shouldn’t necessarily feel weird, or even out of the ordinary. Derek asked to be his Dom and Doms...well, Stiles supposes he doesn’t actually know _what_ Doms do. Derek is nothing like Lucas, or Brian. He’s just... _it’s_ just….he frowns. 

It feels normal, that’s what’s wrong, and “normal” isn’t this. Normal is Boyd dying, normal Cora getting hurt. Normal is someone else getting fucked over and Derek forgetting to be angry, Stiles remembering how to be quiet. Normal is not the middle of the fucking day in Derek’s loft with Derek smelling like honey and butter and Stiles wondering if he will maybe consider turning up the sound on the TV and watching it with him. 

“Good,” Derek says, shaking him from his thoughts. “I don’t know if you have ever filled one of these out,” he adds, picking up whatever he had been reading before, “but I thought it would be a good place to start.”

“What is it?” Stiles asks, scanning the page, trying to take it in, too tired to read. It panics him a little, not being able to make sense of the letters, but the moment Derek squeezes the back of his neck he stops, sagging against him. “Shit if that isn’t some kind of werewolf magic,” he mumbles. 

Derek grunts. “It’s a worksheet,” he says, ignoring the statement. “You can fill it in by yourself or we can do it together, it’s up to you.”

Stiles bites his lip, wary. He didn’t realise there would be paperwork and he  _ definitely  _ does not want to talk about Lucas, if that’s what it’s about. “What kind of worksheet?”

“Kink negotiation, mostly,” Derek shrugs. “It lets me know what appeals to you, what you like and what you want to try.” He counts on his fingers. “What you might want to try and what you definitely  _ don’t _ want to try.”

“Oh,” Stiles exhales, not sure if that means he’s going to have to talk about  _ why  _ he doesn’t like certain...things. “Sounds a bit one sided, if you ask me.”

“The worksheet is for both of us,” Derek answers, shifting a little, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist. Stiles wonders if he realises he’s doing it or if this is how Derek treats - treated - all his...partners; if this is all just mechanics to him. 

“A lot of people think BDSM is just about what the sub wants,” he continues, like he’s teaching a history lesson and not, in fact, talking about kinky sex acts. “That every Dom gets off on fulfilling their sub’s needs and that alone but it’s a partnership. If there’s something I don’t want to do and you do, you have to respect that and the same goes for me. We can discuss certain things, always, but we can’t pressure each other.” He pauses.  “Trust me when I say...agreeing to something you don’t like the sound of, even if you want to please someone, isn’t worth it.”

Stiles nods, wanting to apologise to Derek, even though whatever is in his past isn’t Stiles’ fault. He hates how happy that makes him feel, that Derek’s pain is separate from him; that he doesn’t have to be feel…guilty for fucking up his life (aside from digging up the corpse of his sister). He winces.

“I want you to get something out of this too,” he forces himself to say. “That’s important to me.”

“Don’t worry, I will. I am.”

Stiles blinks, not having really expected that answer, as much as he kind of hoped for it, uncertain what Derek means by it.

“You will tell me though...” he whispers, “if I want to do something and you don’t, right? Because I  _ know _ you Derek. At least,” he amends, “I know enough to know how stubborn you are when it comes to your own,” he waves his hand, “wellbeing.”  

“Not when it comes to this kind of stuff. Maybe I was like that once but…not now. It can be dangerous and I learned the hard way.”

Stiles bites his tongue, not sure how to argue against that, even though he  _ wants  _ to. “So, how does this work?” He nods towards the paper. “Do we take it in turns?”

Derek glances at him, pausing long enough that Stiles begins to fidget, worried he’s said something wrong. 

“First, take a look and tell me is there is anything on here you absolutely don’t want to do,” Derek says, eventually. “Take your time.”

Swallowing, Stiles leans in closer but doesn’t take the paper from Derek, not sure if he is supposed to. It takes him a few moments to adjust, recognising some words, deducing others, trying to keep his hand from trembling as he points to ‘caning’, tensing when Derek stiffens beside him. 

“Okay?” Derek asks, like he hasn’t just put two and two together, waiting for him to finish reading.

“Sure thing, boss.”

Derek rolls his eyes, mumbles something, and Stiles sinks further into him, deciding to take advantage of the fact Derek is as soft and squishy as a teddy bear, despite his rock hard, well,  _ everything _ . 

He looks down at himself, suddenly self conscious. Running didn’t exactly do anything for him and he’s never been able to do more than five press ups at a time, even when coach was threatening detention, usually giving up out of spite or boredom. Pinching his stomach, he worries what Derek will think of it. What if he’s not good enough? 

He turns back to the list.

There’s not a lot on it he’s opposed to, really. Derek’s quick to clue him up on everything he doesn’t know - which is, unsurprisingly, a lot - sparing no detail. 

Stiles wants to find it funny, this weirdly endearing teaching persona Derek has taken on, but this  _ isn’t _ funny. This is important, even if it’s not in the  _ grand  _ scheme of things, and for once Stiles finds it easy to keep his mouth closed, especially when Derek moves to the next item on the list.

“I don’t like being pissed on,” Stiles says immediately, breath catching. “I don’t like...no weird bodily fluids. You or me. Please.”

Derek nods, putting a line through that section of paper and Stiles closes his eyes, cheeks heating up, trying desperately not to think about the night Lucas took him outside and-

“I don’t like the sound of blood play either,” he adds, quickly, blinking the memory away. “Or gagging. I don’t want to be gagged with anything. Not even your…” he coughs, squirming.

Derek nods again, silent, crossing out ‘gagging’ and ‘blood play’. Easy as that. Glancing back, unable to help it, Stiles is relieved to see a slight blush colouring Derek’s cheeks too, calm and unfazed as he looks.

“I like being tied up,” he whispers, after a few beats, feeling slightly more confident, continuing to take in Derek’s face. “But I don’t want that yet. Not for a while.”

Derek nuzzles the back of Stiles’ head, as if to say  _ good job,  _ putting a star against ‘bondage’ _ ,  _ rather than striking through it. It makes Stiles’ insides turn warm and his heart beats a little faster, wondering if he can do something to make Derek do...whatever that was...again.

“Okay. Good,” Derek says. “How about other things, things you would like to do?”

“What do  _ you  _ like to do?” he asks, unsure.

Derek shakes his head. “Whatever you want, Stiles, I won’t judge. I promise.”

Stiles tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling. It’s spotless and he snorts, wondering why he finds that amusing. There isn’t much he’s looked forward to before. All he ever cared about was getting to that  _ place, _ where he feels good.  _ Better _ . He’s never thought about the rest.

“I like it when I’m not allowed to come,” he admits, eventually, remembering that night with Brian, how good he had felt after, not just floaty. “Is, uh, that a thing?”

“Yes,” Derek replies, casual, circling something called ‘orgasm control’. “How long do you usually like it to last? Hours, weeks?”

_ “Weeks _ ? _ ”  _ Stiles can’t help it, he squeaks, eyes widening. Weeks? People go without coming for  _ weeks _ ? He blinks. Each to their own, he supposes.

Derek chuckles, moving his hand, running it up and down his back. 

“You’d be surprised,” he says, face blank, but Stiles can see he’s trying not to grin. “Some of the best orgasms are after a long period of denial.”

“Speaking from experience?” Stiles teases, laughing. “I mean-” Shit. “Not that I would  _ ever  _ want to control your, uh....you know…because I know that’s  _ your _ job, but I, uh…” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shut up. Shut  _ up. _

“Nothing is written in stone,” Derek replies, eying him warily, like he’s some helpless puppy he just found in a dumpster. “Hey, come on. Breathe, Stiles.” He twists a little, tilting Stiles’ chin up. “I prefer domming but if you want to switch things up from time to time, we can. That’s fine. I’m not...averse to it.”

Stiles shakes his head. The idea of having that much control over someone (again) makes him nauseous. Even the thought of pinning someone down….anyone. He gasps, choking on nothing. “No.  _ Never. _ ”

“That’s okay too,” Derek whispers. “This is about making you feel good. Not bad.” He smiles reassuringly and takes Stiles’ hand. “Do you want to stop for today? We can try eating again.”

Stiles barks a laugh. “What is your obsession with getting me to eat?”

Derek raises his eyebrows but Stiles cuts him off before he gets the chance to reply. “I’m cool going on.” He looks back at the sheet. “Nothing else stands out for me. I don’t know. Is that - is that okay?”

“Of course,” Derek shrugs. “How about I tell you what I like and...you can tell me if you like the sound of...something?” 

Stiles blows out a breath, struck by how easy this is, considering. “I’d like that.”

Derek smiles again, warm and private, like Stiles has done something good again, and brings a hand up to Stiles’ face. That tingly feeling comes back and Stiles leans in, knowing he wants something - needs something - he just doesn’t know  _ what.  _ It’s frustrating but that’s not a new thing, he guesses, when it comes to Derek.

“I really like temperature play,” Derek says, suddenly, breaking the moment, removing his hand. “Hot wax, ice, that sort of thing.”

“On my  _ dick _ ?” Stiles splutters, unsure if he’s terrified or intrigued. Maybe both. Is wax supposed to be sexy? He supposes ice is. Both could definitely be painful. 

“If you wanted,” Derek answers. “But only if you asked. Mostly, I would keep to your chest and maybe your thighs. I would never touch your face.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, nodding for emphasis, and Derek quickly makes a note of it, putting it in the  _ maybe  _ column. 

“How do you feel about blindfolding?”

Stiles sucks on his lower lip. “I think…yeah, that should be fine. I trust you not to stab me or anything.”

It’s not a joke, not really, and Derek stares at him, looking weirdly touched. 

“Okay, you’ll tell me if it’s not.” It’s an order, not a question, and even though Stiles knows this is just all part of Derek’s...safety measures or whatever, he can’t help but feel a jolt of...something...running down his spine at the tone his voice takes on. It’s a tone Stiles has heard a hundred times before, sure, but not quite like this. At least, he doesn’t want to punch Derek for it and that’s...yeah, that’s different. 

“Authority,” Derek suppressing a smirk, clearly noticing. “I can play on that if it’s something that does a lot for you?”

“Aren’t you already supposed to be,” Stiles waggles his eyebrows, “authoritative?”

Derek snorts. “There are different degrees of authority, different ways to approach it. I can be strict or lenient, depending on what you need. Role play is another thing we could do.”

“You mean, like, a student...teacher...sort of thing?” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yes Stiles, a student, teacher sort of thing. Amongst other things. If you want.”

Stiles bites his lip, thinking about what  _ that  _ might look like. Feel like. “Would you dress up in a shirt and tie?” His eyes widen. “Would you wear  _ tweed _ ?”

Derek scrunches up his nose, making Stiles laugh. “No tweed,” he says. “Making you do lines though,  _ that’s  _ something I’d love to see.” He grins and Stiles narrows his eyes.

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“I’m serious, and if you were good...you’d get something good.”

Stiles swallows. It’s the first time this...whatever this is….has sounded _real,_ like it’s really going to happen, and Stiles feels his palms turn sweaty. “I could...be into that.”

“Noted,” Derek says.

“So, what happens now?” Stiles asks, hesitantly, suddenly feeling awkward again.

Derek takes a moment to consider this. “Do you  _ want _ anything to happen now? Just because we’ve talked about it doesn’t mean - we can watch another movie if you like, or marathon Game of Thrones _. _ ” He nods towards the television. _ “ _ I know you like it.”

“How-” Stiles begins to ask, before blinking, thinking back to last summer, when they were looking for Erica and Boyd. He had just started watching Game of Thrones, a distraction. He probably brought it up at least once. He had had a lot of things to say about it.

“I don’t want to have sex,” he answers, only realising now how true that statement is. “As you said. I mean- I want - it  _ helps,  _ you know? The sex. I just-” He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to think how to say  _ I was ready and now I’m not. _

“We don’t have to have sex for any of this stuff,” Derek says. “If you want sex too, at some point, that’s an option and we can work it into our scenes but one can exist without the other. We don’t  _ ever _ have to have sex, Stiles. Not if you don’t want it. I want you to know that.”

Stiles frowns, confused. “What would we do instead?”

“We could do something simple. You could sit by me here, on a pillow, for example. All you have to do is be a good boy for me and stay on it.”

_ A good boy. _

“That sounds...good.”

“But?”

“But.” Stiles’ frown deepens. “I don’t see how that will…get me anywhere?”

“You mean subspace?”

Stiles nods, cheeks flushing, even though he knows it’s not a dirty word. “It’s...it’s what I  _ need _ . I don’t...I get there pretty easily, I just...it takes…” He buries his face in his hands. “Getting there is really important to me.” It feels like a big admission and maybe it is. He feels naked, vulnerable, and he pulls away, scrambling from Derek’s lap.

“There are different levels of subspace,” Derek says, making no move to stop him. “The deeper levels are usually achieved through pain and prolonged activity. This, what I’m proposing, might not give you what you need but I want to try, see if it does.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, knowing he sounds unconvinced, ungrateful.  

Sliding from the sofa, Derek kneels in front of him. “There’s a difference between physiological and psychological subspace,” he explains. “The first one is predominantly caused by pain and endorphins. The second...is trickier to understand.” He frowns. “It’s more about the connection between...you and me. Dom and sub. A simple conversation can sometimes trigger subspace, depending on the sub, which is why subspace can be very dangerous if the Dom doesn’t know what they are doing.”

“Okay,” he says again, willing to trust what Derek is saying. “Okay.” He forces a grin. “Do  _ you  _ want to do this right now? Because, dude, if you are trying to hint you’ve been dying to watch Game of Thrones with me, all you have to do is say.” He winks, unsure what else to do.

Derek shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “I’m giving you the choice. I’ll be happy with either decision.”

_ I’m giving you the choice. _

Stiles relaxes, something lifting from his shoulders. “TV. I want to watch TV.”

“Good,” Derek says, getting up. “Do you want fruit or toast?”

Stiles groans, about to protest, before remembering last night. He still doesn’t want to  _ eat _ but if Derek will feed him again…

“Fruit,” he says. “Definitely fruit but  _ not  _ raisins. Why anyone would want to murder grapes in that way is beyond me.”

Derek shakes his head, smirking. “Okay. Thank you.”

It’s not quite  _ good boy,  _ but it’s close enough, and Stiles smiles, making himself comfortable. He’s not marathoned something since his mom, when they used to binge watch old cartoons together, and something tells him Derek hasn’t had a good old fashioned marathon in a long time either.

He looks round, watching Derek begin to chop something up. It’s painfully normal and Stiles’ heart thumps weirdly in his chest.

“What,” Derek says.

“Nothing,” Stiles answers, shaking his head, turning back to the TV. 

 


End file.
